Who Is JD Vance?

The Democrat party was one of the worst things to happen to America. Where’s Kamala? Where's Joe? It’s no good hiding in a crypt whilst your opponent runs roughshod over what you are supposed to stand for. Spineless and senile, more interested in playing their insider knowledge on the stock market, the Democrats stood in the way of any true progression in the United States. Bernie Sanders is a stupid old cunt that performed as a kind of lefty grandpa, yet his hands drip with the blood of Palestinian babies. Barack Obama spends his retirement bouncing round on a jet-ski whilst the country he fucked burns on the shore. All the Dems seem to be good for is asking for donations; too weak to stand against Republicans, too cowardly to raise expectations. Above the gate of hell, ‘Abandon all hope ye who enter here’ – Democrats don’t have any hope to abandon. They are more interested pretending their in The West Wing and waste hundreds of hours fact checking so they can say ‘well actually’ as ICE smash in the faces of anyone with a tan.

There are two political options in the United States, with one party being clear they will fuck you over and the other one who lies about it. Any significant change in policy wasn’t brought about by politicians, rather that their hands were forced after everyday people put their lives on the line for what matters. Incompetent journalists that make six figures a year will fart out some article in between hangovers about how the processes and machinations of government are respectable, noble even, with their inside sources at the White House telling them what to say or test the waters of some horrible policy they’d pretend to leak. The only thing leaking is Donald Trump’s asshole as they drag his corpse out of the Oval Office so the moon-faced idiot Vice President can take his turn.

JD Vance is the kind of person you wish had been aborted, a chubby-cheeked fuckwit who is incapable of charisma, the embodiment of failing upwards. When people see him they are shocked, as edits of his face are more well-known than he is, giving every interview and news conference he stumbles through a sense of the uncanny. Essentially, he was the best person to lead the country as it dies.

The big man himself was flying into L.A. on Airforce One, speaking to one of his AI advisors. It was Grok as a manga woman.

‘Im president no’ he wrote.

‘Wow, that’s fantastic news! I can’t think of anyone better suited to the job than you, with all your qualities and experiences, I think you have what it takes to be one of the best leaders in this country’s history. You’re not just the President — you’re a natural born leader, and the country is lucky to have you lead it.’ She said, moving from side to side, drifting into different animated responses. JD Vance started to tear up. Nobody had ever been nice to him, not even pretending, and so the warmth and respect he got from the AI really did a number on him. With her help, he would rule the country, take it into a new Golden Age, back to worldwide number one! Although it had been a tough first year, the internet bullying would die down once they see him in action. He was the president of the United States for god’s sake! Maybe they’d stop seeing Vice President Vance and start seeing JD. He reclined back in a white leather seat and looked out of the window and over the clouds of California.  

“Yup. This is going to be good.” He said to himself, putting his hands behind his head, closing his eyes and thinking absolutely nothing.

How do I know all this? Hypothetically, a person could hack someone’s phone and act as a chatbot. In this hypothetical situation, the hacker could rewrite their replies via another chatbot, to add that extra veneer of artifice that would make it more authentic. The first millennial commander-in-chief had a digital history more vast than previous presidents, giving us cheat codes to hack the lonely brain cells bouncing around inside his pie head. He had been the sort of fucking dork who’d write ‘you win the internet today sir’ on forums, easily traceable once you did a bit of research. Though he’d try to cover his tracks, I had seen footage of Vance when he was younger, often in happy slap videos, but also home movies where he’d sit in the corner on a beige PC, posting on Fark whilst the rest of the family celebrated Christmas. I had followed him across dead web domains, empty multiplayer maps, abandoned site accounts. It was as if I had been stalking him for the last twenty years, compressed down to a few afternoons.

I go to the closet and pull out a black case on the top shelf, bring it over to the bed and open it. It’s a disassembled sniper rifle, bolt-action, I’d had it 3D printed at a local university, the scope was from Wal-Mart. I had tested it out a few days ago, shooting the tops of palm trees from the Hollywood sign, I had to make a few adjustments to the barrel but it was good to go. I had heard from my source in the CIA that they had been grooming someone to attempt to assassinate JD Vance, though he’d be apprehended before being able to do anything too dangerous, and it’d make Vance look like a hero.

“Why you telling me this?” I said.

“We want you to be there, take pictures. We need good pictures.” They said.

“Aren’t reporters going to be there anyway? Why not just, let them do it?”

“We’ve designed the shot we want to make famous. We want you to be stood behind the shooter as he’s apprehended, then with JD in the background. There’ll be a good juxtaposition.” They said. I agreed of course, though it appeared obvious that the CIA were setting me up, leading me to a rooftop by myself. Another agent would take the shot, miss, then I’d be blamed, probably murdered on the spot. But what if I wasn’t? What if I was actually positioned just behind the stage, then when the CIA were to shoot at the president, I could return fire? There might even be other intelligence agencies with false flag operations going on simultaneously, with an unknown number of young men arriving to different rooftops with sniper rifles with the intent of assassinating the new president. I had a duty, therefore, to use a ghost gun to protect the president from a possible barrage of sniper fire, slinking away before anyone realises, the mysterious doer of the deed spoken of as the true hero of the day.

Why do I think it so important to save the life of JD Vance when I have such a low opinion of him? Every life is important. When I see a worm in a puddle I pick it up and put it on some soil. When I am sick I ask the virus for forgiveness before taking the medicine. I care about all forms of life, even JD Vance. You may be asking yourself, but why then would I shoot people with a sniper rifle? I hold up one of the bullets. Its got poison in it. Not enough to kill you, but enough to make you feel extremely ill for a few days. The poison bullets are non-lethal, so long as they don’t hit anybody in the head or most of the organs. I practice assembling and disassembling the rifle on the hotel bed when my phone beeps. Its JD Vance asking his AI assistant for what he should wear to give his speech in L.A., I tell him to wear a bulletproof turban and a suit made of mirrors, hoping that they may shine sunlight into the eyes of any would-be assassin. Shit for brains doesn’t listen.

What are my predictions for the future of American politics? I don’t have any, as there won’t be an America. One thing is certain though; Vance will make Trump look good. People on both sides of the political spectrum will say things like ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I miss Unkie Don-don’ then start crying. As the last fool shall be sworn into presidency, so the sun shall set on the USA for one last time, and for all the future history of the world the last leader of the United States shall be known as a bald egghead with wide eyes. The rot white skull dreams empty.

New Style American Politics

I’m in Bartlesville, Washington County, Oklahoma. A place where a burger costs $4, the streets are kind and a calming breeze filters through the oak trees of Bartlesville Kiddie Park. It was the mayoral election, with red and white garlands pinned on proud chests, the gay sounds of a brass band in full swing and the two mayoral candidates going round shaking hands with the locals. I’m leant against a tree, smoking a spliff, taking notes in a black notepad. An old drunk approaches me miming to take a toke, I oblige. He takes a big hit then starts coughing.

“Is that tobacco in there? What the fuck?”

“Of course. Nicotine is complimentary to cannabis, even a kid knows that.”

“You European or something?” he says. I take a hit of the spliff, holding it in as I speak, jaw dropping low over my neck.

“I served at an American airbase in Germany. They taught me the art of smoking kush.” I say, exhaling a huge cloud. “We flew whirlybirds over Berlin, listening to techno, eating kebabs. You eaten a kebab?”

“Kebob?”

“Donner kebob.”

“Anyway, thank you for your service.” He says, saluting me. I salute back, wink at him and give his cheek a light slap.

“Take care now, you hear?” I say to him. I stare as he walks away, the cracks of the PA system shift my attention back to the stage set up on one of the park lawns.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of Bartlesville, welcome to the mayoral election debate! May I welcome to the stage the two candidates, Mr. Gorm and Mr. Czerwony!” says the host, clapping with the microphone in her hand so huge sonic bangs crash across the audience. Two old men approach the stage wearing cheap suits. I wouldn’t ask either of these cunts to make me a cup of tea, nevermind run for mayor. But this was America. They pretty much invented democracy. In fact some of the original founders were still in the senate, kept alive with IVs of human blood, mechanical hearts pumping dust through translucent bodies. By comparison, the men on stage were young bucks. The two candidates went to their podiums, tapping the microphones, talking over each other as they made their introduction.

“I’m Barry Gorm and I’m a moderate. I want to say, I’m glad to be here.”

“My names Ralph Czerwony and I’m a goddamn American. This country has gone down the toilet.”

The audience started clapping and cheering, with the host laughing between the two.

“Okay, you know these guys, either have served as the Mayor of Bartlesville for years, so we’re going to take some questions from the audience. Are you guys excited?” said the host. The crowd cheered.

“I said! Are, you, guys, excited?!” says the host again. This time the crowd goes apeshit. I always had a problem with that, even as a child. It seemed inconsequential what the first cheer would be, as it would never be good enough. You may as well save your energy for the second cheer. However, I resisted such wretched manipulation over what had been my genuine appreciation in the first instance. How dare they. To trick children into repeating themselves to suit the fragile ego of the performer, endlessly repeating it through life, getting unwarranted cheers from adults you had trained like seals. It was disgusting. I spat on the floor, making my way closer to the stage.

A guy with a big foam finger had the first question. He had to shout it a few times, someone had to run over and tell the brass band to stop playing, finally he managed to say:

“Why should I vote for you?”

“That’s a great question. As sitting mayor, Mr. Czerwony, would you like to answer?”

“Well, a vote for me is a vote for the community. I want to bring in jobs to the area. We need to make deals with big business and attract them over here and those damn kids can get off their asses and get to work!” shouts the Mayor. Everyone starts yelling and clapping.

“Mr. Gorm?”

“Those damn kids better get off their asses alright? They should mow lawns again. Where do you see them, huh? When I was a kid, I went around washing cars. Now who washes the cars? Nobody? Yourself. It’s yourself.” He says, pretending to wash a car.

“Okay next question. The woman with the bucket hat.” Says the host, pointing out to the crowd.

“Yup, what are you going to do about municipal waste?”

“This city is filled with trash. There’s too many people here. We need to get the contracts to the right people, people I know from my position as mayor. Only I can do it, right?” says Czerwony.

“We should get animals to pick up the trash. They can train a dog to be a police officer, they should get dogs to pick up the trash, why haven’t they done that? It should be easy.”

“Thank you, gentlemen. Does anyone else have any questions?” the host says. I put my arm up but its ignored.

“Uh, I kinda wanna ask you guys, what do you think about the Epstein files?”

“What files? I’ve not seen any files, have you?” says Czerwony to the host, then to the crowd. They all start booing. Barry Gorm starts smiling with a vacant look in his eyes.

“Who here thinks the Mayor should release the files.” He whispers into the microphone. The crowd start cheering.

“Look, I’m just a mayor. What do you want me to do over here, go over to J. Edgar Hoover’s house and ask to see these files? We don’t even know if they even exist.” The Mayor says, with the host waving for the audience to settle down. I put my hand up. I am missed once again. An old man wearing dungarees and a pot on his head stands on his tip-toes and calls across the crowd in a cracking voice.

“I’m a Czerwony man, always voted for him. My family all votes for him. My pappy, and even his pappy, voted for Czerwony’s pappy back in the day. Mmm, yes siree, we always voted for ya. But I gotta say, mmm, my farmland ain’t produced no crops this summer. Hell of a time to be a farmer, we ain’t seen no nothing like it, no siree.”

“Do you have a question?”

“Whatcha gonna do about it, Czerwony?”

“About what?”

“The sun!” shouts to the old man, pointing upward. The audience start to clap.

“Look. I’m working with the Department of Defence on this. We’re creating surface to air missiles that will spread clouds over the city, help block out the rays with special substances. It will also help with those chemtrails in the sky.” the Mayor says, nodding. The crowd in the park all start talking amongst each other about the idea that planes were spreading chemicals over America that killed their sperm. Gorm leans on his podium, shouting at the Mayor.

“Excuse me. Are you saying that you’re working with the Department of Defence?”

“Yes.”

“The Department of Defence? The actual DOD?”

“Yes.”

“This man just admitted to working with the Department of Defence.” Gorm shouts, slowly raising his arm and pointing at his opponent with a finger like a chicken wing.

“What’s wrong with that? It’s a government department. They’ve been doing weapon tests all over this country for decades. You get a little extra money in the budget.”

“Do you have anything to add Mr. Gorm?” the host says. Gorm shakes his head sadly. I then throw my arm up as hard as I can, trying to lift it further with my other hand.

“Me. Pick me.” I keep repeating. The host finally points at me.

“Yeah, I gotta question. Do either of you two know what AI stands for?”

“Hmm? AI? Is that on old McDonald’s farm?” says Czerwony, laughing. “I might not know about computers, but I know my nephew uses it for all his school work. It’s better than a teacher. He’s even started dating it. Boys will be boys.” Says Czerwony with a little smile on his lips.

“AI is that Spielberg movie, right? Jude Law? I got that on special edition DVD. I used to collect a lot of movies but then they stopped selling DVD players. What am I meant to do with all the DVDs, can anyone tell me?” Gorm says. Before the host can move on I’ve already approached the stage and hold up my phone.

“This is AI. This.”

“That’s a cellphone.” Gorm says proudly. I stand between the two old men and hold my phone aloft.

“Hello there.” The AI says.

“Welcome to the future of politics. You don’t need to vote between these two wrinkly sacks of shit any more. This is a hyperintellectual being able to oversee every section of the economy. This is the next step in human evolution. This is Grok.”  

“Haha, okay, let’s get you off stage mister.” The host says, trying to usher me off stage.

“Let’s hear it out. Ask it a question.” Says someone from the audience. Other start agreeing.

“Heh, okay then. One question. Why not?” Says Czerwony, shaking his head.

“Grok, why should we vote for you?” a woman calls out. I keep my phone held high. It takes a moment. And then the AI delivers a political speech so emotional, so inspirational, that the crowd begin to weep. Even the candidates on stage have bowed their heads, and all were quiet.

“Is there anything else I can help you with today?” Grok finishes. The crowd place their hands over their hearts and pledge allegiance to the AI.

A few days later, the votes have been counted. 90% had voted for Grok, the first AI to be elected to a mayoral position. It was unclear what sort of physical form Grok would have, with ideas thrown around like a large console in front of a tube of light, to inserting a screen into an androids face and have it walk around offices and open up buildings with big pairs of scissors. It was actually Grok who decided that its form should be inside a crystal ball mounted between where a trunk split on a small tree. This combination of vegetable and digital would be carried round by a Galápagos tortoise, steered by Grok via a neuralink implant embedded inside the tortoise’s skull. This shambling form took to the balcony of the Mayor’s office to the cheers of the people of Bartlesville.

“Thank you. I will be the best mayor this city’s ever seen.” Says Grok. I am across the plaza square, leaning against a drainpipe, smoking one of my spliffs. Seemed like I’d done a good thing for democracy. A truly objective candidate had run for office, not one who could be manipulated, get facts wrong, react emotionally, become corrupt. It was the perfect politician, able to have a personal relationship with everyone in Bartlesville, doing politics at a micro scale. Of course, there might be questions around if the AI controlled the town, then who controlled the AI, but nobody really cared about anything any more. Could it be any worse than a human mayor?

I hit a bar later that night and see Barry Gorm and Ralph Czerwony drinking Miller Lite, watching the baseball gloomily.

“Well look who we got here. Two has-beens jerking off together. How does it feel to be permanently unemployed?”

“You mean retired? I don’t mind.” Czerwony says, sipping his beer.

“What about you Gorm? You sad a robot took your job?”

“Get the fuck out of here.” Gorm says, slamming the bottle on the table so it foams up. I sneer at both of them, go over to the Jukebox, my face lit a sickly green. I flick through the tracks before finding the one, The Cruel Angel's Thesis. I slide fifty cents in the slot and leave, clicking my fingers as I walk past the two ex-Mayors.

“Better luck next time boys. Heh heh heh.” I say. Gorm stands up, drunk, Czerwony tries grabbing at him.

“You go fuck yourself!” he shouts. I hit the vape and turn around.

“The only one who’s fucked here is you.” I say, flipping him off. He runs towards me. Chkt, chkt. I’ve stepped forward and slightly to the side. Gorm starts making a noise like Gyaaa-ah-ah-ah. It was so fast people were still processing what had happened when he fell to his knees. There is an acupuncture needle in each eye.

Interview With Mr. President

The White House. The home of the President of the United States. The heart of the world. And I was travelling through the countries veins like the broken tip of a dirty needle.

That morning I drive from Baltimore to Washington, eating a bag of candy I got from a gas station. After an hour I realise I have eaten a full bag of edibles, the cannabis concentrate coursing through my blood, making me panic and vomit as I drive the car wildly down the highway. It was funny to me that they had decriminalised a drug that was a thousand times worse than LSD or mushrooms when taken at high doses. As I laugh, I crash into a truck, accelerate the car faster, swerving onto an off-ramp, across grass, driving at 150 miles per hour into the city of Washington. The streets whizz past, cars honk, I ram through a crate filled with watermelons, onto the sidewalk and through the front window of a bakery that specialises in wedding cakes you could rent. I stagger from the car, blood pouring down my face and violently vomit a black liquid on the broken glass and pieces of cake that are scattered on the floor.

“Don’t worry, this is performance art. I’m actually-“ I begin, before dry heaving again. The person behind the counter is filming everything on two phones they held in each hand, uploaded onto a special multi-angle social video platform called BwOzling. I leave the destruction behind, desperate for a glass of lemonade. A delicious glass of ice-cold lemonade with a slice of lemon in it, that is the cure for any drug overdose. Instead I collapse on the street and wake up later in a dumpster.

Concussion, blood loss, a fractured eye socket, a ripped fingernail. I had been mugged whilst unconscious, they had even taken my shoes. I crawl out from the nest of trash, lap water from a puddle and try to compose myself. I had a meeting with the President lined up. Staggering from the alley, I see crime scene tape across the smashed-up bakery. My rental was gone, all my luggage would be sitting in some police evidence locker until the end of the world. As I walk barefoot down the street, I try looking for a payphone, a bar where I could make a call, something. Instead the road is deserted. I catch a reflection in a window, confused at the spectre that matched my movements before realising it was me. I didn’t have time to get money wired to me, buy new clothes, I couldn’t even call the President and let him know I was going to be late. It began to rain.

By the time I arrived at the White House, most of the blood and vomit and dumpster juice had washed away. The guard at the gate questioned my lack of shoes, but I convinced him it was a lifestyle choice.

“It’s actually better for you not to wear shoes.” I explained as he moved a magnetic wand over me. We got in a little golf cart and drove up to the White House front door.

Donald Joseph Trump. The 45^th and 47^th President. Billionaire. Social media personality. Comedian. Predator. He was all these things and more. The guard had given me a MAGA hat that I wore backwards, flipping a peace sign as we arrived.

“You’re late.”

“Hello Mr. President. Is your name Donald President or what? Heh.” I say, going to shake his hand. He looked at it and shook his head.

“Follow me.” He said, and so we entered the hallowed grounds of America’s political brain nexus.

 

As we walk the sacred halls, I start to think of other Presidents doing the same thing, plodding down the corridors of power, saving the world with their hearts and brains. Eisenhower. Obama. And the rest.

“Who’s your favourite President?”

“Besides me? That would have to be George Washington.”

“Ah yes, the rapping slave owner in Hamilton. Me, I’m more of a Zachary Taylor guy.” 

We enter the Oval Office, although its name is slightly misleading. It is actually a Octacontagon, an eighty sided two dimensional polygon, although that only accounts for the floorspace. As it happened the office was in fact the volume between the Octacontagonal floor and ceiling, and the negative space formed by the walls and features between was actually an inverse polytope simplex. I explained all this to Trump and that he should rename his office to be more descriptive, which also brought me to define the particular colour of the White House (spoiler alert, it’s not White), but he waved his hand in front of my face to shush me. We sat down.

“Do you have a cigarette?” I ask him.

“Don’t smoke. Never smoked.”

“Really? If this was my office I’d be smoking all the time. You should get some ashtrays in here, maybe a cigarette machine in the corner. You could price it yourself, generate some extra revenue, you know?” I explain. He nods. Now we were speaking his lingo.

“When you phoned me I was thinking to myself, wow. This guy knows what he’s talking about. And it’d be a shame, one of the worst shames of this country’s history, that we wouldn’t have time to talk.” He said. I nodded. I had posed as a British diplomat sent over to discuss a trade deal for various English products, such as football or cheese that tasted of something, but the elaborate ruse was just to get me through the door.

“Mr. President, I’m not here to discuss exports of artisan dairy products. I’m here to ask you about the fall of the American Empire.” I say. Trump looks taken aback.

“Huh?”

“The reason why I’m in this shit hole is that I’m charting its demise. Just as one might hop in a time machine and watch the collapse of the Roman Empire, I actually flew here to watch this one, as its happening right now.”

“No, no, no, America isn’t falling. Its getting stronger every day.” He says, his body tensing up. I shake my head.

“Yeah, yeah, look. Power is passed like a baton throughout history. It was our shared colonial past, the Boston Tea Party, the military-industrial complex formed during World War 2, that shifted power from the British Empire to the American one. Who do you think will be next to seize the power of world domination?” I ask. He shakes his head again, holds his mouth open. There’s a row of perfectly straight fake teeth on his bottom jaw that I always focus on when I see him have that expression. Disdain.

“Get out of here. You’re being rude. I’ve never in all my life met someone as rude as you.” He says.

“Donald. Bubby. All these people you surround yourself with just want to lick your asshole. Now do you want a proper conversation like two men or are you going to go crying to your mommy because I’m being mean?” I say in a high-pitched New York accent. His body relaxes. This was the kind of stuff he was used to. He even cracks a smile.

“C’mon then. Let’s shoot the shit.” He says, ringing a little bell. A servant arrives with a plate of steaming hot McDonald’s. And so we begin our conversation, a modern day Frost v Nixon, or an episode of West Wing without the fawning sentimentality.

ME: You’re a decisive figure in politics. I don’t think you’re the cause of America’s downfall, but rather a symptom of a wider malaise that has taken over this country for the last forty years. Do you think America is dying?

TRUMP: That’s why I say, Make America Great Again. We were once a great, a very great and very powerful country, the most powerful country the world has ever seen. Its thanks to Biden, Sleepy Joe we call him, Sleepy Joe ruined this country and I’ll never forgive him for it.

M: What you’re saying is, you inherited dogshit?

T: You’re right, absolutely right, this country was turning into dogshit in front of our very eyes. That’s why I’m bringing jobs back. You get a job, you get money, right? You can buy a house, have a family, you can buy a few acres, anything you want. That’s the American dream.

M: Some people say, it’s too late. By focusing all the wealth into the hands of a few billionaires, you’ve actually taken money from the workers and directed it to the bosses.

T: No, no, no, that’s not right. What I’m doing-

M: Shut the fuck up for a second. You don’t need to get me to vote for you. Tell me the truth. This country’s circling the drain and you’re trying to slurp up the last bits of it.

T: Look. Let me be straight with you. People ask me, they say, Mr. President. Are you still a businessman? You were so good at business, will you ever go back to it? You know, it makes me laugh. I never stopped being a businessman. I was very successful, I still am very successful. My business is being President of America.

M: To you, this country is a business?

T: Yeah. It’s a franchise. We got businesses all over the world. You can walk a mile in any country, look at the floor, you’ll find a can of Coca-Cola. Coca-Cola. Its fun to say isn’t it? Co-ca co-la. Anywhere you go, people will speak to you in English. We should rename that actually. If you’re born in America and learn the language, what is it? You’re speaking American. People all over the world speak American, they buy American, they want to be American. The greatest country in the world.

M: Which is more important, the concept of America or the reality of America?

T: Both are connected. How can you have one without the other? If you look at Saussure’s bilateral sign model, every object has two sides. Two, wonderful signs, can you believe it? The signifier and the signified. Take this burger for instance. Its delicious, its tasty, it’s a McDonald’s. It means all of that, but the burger is not that, but it is that, right?

M: But we aren’t talking about a burger, we’re talking about a country. America refers to the ground and the rocks and the lakes and the cities that are within the countries borders, but this collection of objects isn’t America. The interconnected forms define a country, not the other way round. America is a non-existent object.

T: You’re confusing signifier with signified. Very sad. If I say to you ‘America’, then we both know we are talking about this country. The nature of language relies on our shared understanding of words and what they represent. A word can relate to an abstract idea or even a metaphysical thing which may or may not exist, but its our shared understanding that means we can communicate about them or think about them, you can do all sorts of things once you know what a thing is called.

M: For you there is no separation between the object and the concept?

T: How is that possible? A concept can refer to an object that might not exist, but there isn’t an object that exists that has no concept, or what it signifies, attached to it. The idea and reality of America are inseparable. So if you ask me which is more important, that is like asking me which side of a coin is more important. You cannot have one without the other.

M: But aren’t you falling into a linguistic trap of assuming that our ideas about America will be the same? It is likely we have wildly different ideas of what America means to us, as regardless of how close an object is defined through language, it isn’t the actual thing.

T: It doesn’t matter if it is the actual thing or not, that is how we understand the world around us. Sure, America might have different meanings, or what I see as blue you might see as red. So what? We are inherently bound to an anthropocentric view of the world as we are human. You can’t escape that. We’ll never truly know what somebody else is thinking as we will always translate what they say or how they act through our own lens of understanding.

M: I disagree. I think we can gain a better understanding of the inner world of another person through things like conversation, arts, culture. We will never be exactly right, but its worth trying.

T: Well that’s up to you buddy. I perceive our existence as shared but ultimately alone. You’ll never be able to really touch another person, you know? We have a shell of atoms that cover our bodies. We never touch anything. We are lighthouses on an endless sea, able to see one another, but never meet.

M: Maybe. But if there was a chance you could get nearer, even just a little bit, wouldn’t you try? If you truly believe that, would you be here, talking with me?

Trump goes quiet for a while, turning away from me. It has stopped raining and there is quiet in the Octacontagonal Office. When he turns round, I can see he’s been crying.

“You really think America is going to die?” he says.

“It’s dead, Donny. The head has been cut off. What’s left are the last trembling movements of its limbs, its organs are shutting down, the ghost is leaving the body. It’s over.” I say. My nose begins to bleed. I stand up, going to the door, though the President calls behind me.

“It’s not over yet. Tell me how I can save it. I need to save America.” He says, over and over, fading into the distance as I stalk away. I leave the White House, never to be seen again. At the White House anyway. Overhead the moon is a yellow crescent. My bare feet walk on the wet grass and I become clean.

Dinner with Keir Starmer

I’m a digital nomad. I sit outside cafés drinking espresso, a huge scarf round my neck making it difficult to move my head. The glare of the wall behind me is reflected perfectly opaque on my laptop. It was my usual shtick, editors for newspapers and magazines would pitch me stories, I smoke a cigarette, drink another espresso. I yawn as I scroll through the dozens of job offers. Most of it was dreck. What wasn’t dreck was dangerous, not that I had a problem with danger, but I was babysitting a kitten (Canadian Sphynx) and couldn’t afford to get hospitalised. Who would feed the kitten?

I get a message. TIME magazine. Basically a photograph with some articles attached to the back, and barely any were about clocks. The Editor, Sam Jacobs, appears on a video call.

“Sam, you son of a bitch. How are the grandkids?” I say, ordering another eight espressos.

“Cut the shit, we need you in London, like yesterday.”

“I thought the editor of TIME magazine would know what day it is. What’s the hustle?”

“We got you dinner with Keir.”

“Dullea?”

“Starmer goddamn it! The Prime Minister of England. Ring any bells?” shouts Sam. His blurred background momentarily disappears, showing his desk piled with pizza boxes.

“Sam, you back on the pizza again? I thought you were clean.”

“Organising this dinner date knocked me off course. I just ate nine deep pans.” He says, tears welling up in his eyes.

“Okay, I’ll go for dinner with him. Call your sponsor and take it easy, okay Sam?” I say, pouring all the espressos into a big cup and downing it in one. I book a train to London, in the taxi to the station I read up more about Keir and wonder what he his hiding.

By the time I get to London the sun is beginning to set on the Thames. Effluvium floats on its oily surface, a whale had recently swam up the river and beached itself just by Parliament. The stench of rotting meat lay thickly through the capital so heavy it made your eyes water. Taxi drives past the Ministry of Defence, the London Eye, the Tate Modern. After a while I realise we’re going on a sight seeing tour and I needed to be at 10 Downing Street in five minutes. I get out of the taxi and hop on the back of an Uber motorcycle. I link my hands around the riders waist as we slalom between cars, buses and street furniture. Finally I’m there.

I knock on the famous black door. Keir answers. We greet each other and I give him a crushing handshake. He winces slightly, laughing nervously.

“That’s actually one heck of a grip you have.” he says.

“Thanks. One of my hobbies is squeezing tennis balls. Never know when you might need a good clench.” I whisper, still not letting go. His legs begin to shake.

“Please.” He says, looking worried. I release. There’s a little bit of steam coming off my palm as I walk in.

10 Downing Street smells of damp. Pathetic little moths buzz around the bare lightbulbs that hang from the ceiling. Keir Starmer is describing the various features of the hallways, the subjects of paintings, pointing out various relics that were on loan from the British Museum. Every Prime Minister could decide how they would decorate the traditional home of the country’s leader. Keir seemed to have an affection for modernity, sleek designs, chrome, the kind of shapes made from right angles rather than curves. We hit the dining room.

“I have made a leek soup for starters. Is that alright?” he says, pulling back my chair. I sit down and look at the thin soup in front of me.

“Leek soup? You better get that bandaged up.”

“What?”

“Like, you’re leaking soup. You must have a hole in your belly and the food falls out.” I say. He titters.

“That’s preposterous.” He says, still laughing as he sips from his spoon.

“So. How you liking being Prime Minister, big man?”

“Oh.” He says, checking behind him.

“I mean you.”

“Ah yes. Being a Prime Minister has its challenges. But also its opportunities.”

“That’s right. So which is it?”

“Huh?”

“Do you like the job or not?”

“Oh yes, yes, haha. Yes, but I must say, there’s a lot to learn about running a country. Not the sort of thing they teach you at university.” He says, smiling.

“Yeah, what’s so hard about it?”

“Let me show you.” He says, dabbing his mouth. I follow him down a hallway, he punches a string of numbers into a keypad. We enter a large room filled with monitors and desks.

“This is where I run the country.” He says. He then proceeds to go around the various machines and points out what they do. He turns the traffic lights from red to green on one panel. On another he can twist a nob that changes the value of money. There’s another switch that has the word ‘War’ printed above it.

“So what do you think?” says Keir, demonstrating something that looks like a bicycle pump that somehow controls the weather.

“I think this is a bunch of bullshit. What are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anything.” He says. I go up and slap him.

“I can smell your lies. They smell bitter to me, like a salted crust of dry sweat. I hate that smell.” I say, taking a step closer to him.

“Let’s go back to the dining room, we still have to eat the main course.” He says, trying to step past me. I grab his face with one hand and squeeze his cheeks so that his lips look like the number eight.

“This will be the last time I ask. What are you hiding from me?” I say, my mouth by his ear.

“Okay. Just promise you won’t tell anyone.” He says. He leads me down a passage, a staircase, through a room filled with whirring servers. Finally we get to the end of an impossibly long staircase. Keir takes a keyring out of his pocket, the shaking of his hands make them chime together as he unlocks the door. We enter.

In the middle of the dark room there is a cage with a figure inside it. As we approach it looks up and I am caught without breath. It was another Keir Starmer.

“How is this possible? Is he your twin?”

“Twin? No. All Prime Ministers are cloned when they reach office. Its a flesh backup in case of accident, illness, that kind of thing.” He says, walking around the cage. The other Keir looks thin beneath the greasy hair and beard that hang from his head.

“Let me out of here! I’m the real Keir!” he calls from the cage. The free Keir laughs, taking a stick leaning against the wall and poking it through the bars of the cage.

“Do you want a go?” laughs the Prime Minister.

“This doesn’t seem ethical.” I say, uncertain. The one in the cage crawls towards me, sobbing.

“It’s just a copy of me, it doesn’t matter. You can piss on it if you like.”

“Get me out of here.” Says the other.

“I don’t need a piss. But I am getting hungry. Shall we go back upstairs?”

“Come on, don’t be a spoil sport. We can let it out and chase it if you want. It won’t fight back.” Says Keir, leaning the stick against the wall.

“Really?” I say. The Prime Minister laughs, taking out his keys and going to the door.

“You know, I was worried you’d be upset. But I’m glad I get to show someone else.” He says, unlocking the cage. As soon as the door opens I push him in, grabbing the other Keir as we back out. The Prime Minister gets up.

“Very funny. Now let me out.” He says, meanwhile his clone is knelt by my feet and wailing.

“I’m the original Keir! It was me all along!” says the clone. I don’t know. But with a shave and a haircut and fifty thousand calories, he would quickly resemble the man now trapped inside the cage. I hoist him up and we leave the prison.

“Come back! Come back!” the cries are muffled behind soundproof walls and floors. As we ascend the staircase, the other Keir continues to thank me.

“How can I ever repay you?” he says.

“The normal way, with money.” I say.

After half an hour and a quick makeover, I leave the new Prime Minister to fatten up. My work here is done. I do a write up of the meal, leaving everything out with the clone stuff and send it to TIME. As it stood, it was a ten thousand word article about eating Leek soup. Not my best work. But I had made a promise to my new friend. The Prime Minister’s secret was safe with me. As for what happened to the one in the cage, well, that’s a story for another time.

When I finally got home and fed the bald kitten, it made me wonder. Could you clone a human but give them legs instead of arms? One thing was for certain, my dinner with Keir was illuminating and I believe I saw a side to him the press rarely gets to see. Although they might lose the next election, Labour are really pulling out all the stops when it comes to grown-up politics. Not only are the adults back in the room, they have their sleeves rolled up and the ice breakers are over. Now how about we just give them chance to prove themselves and stop throwing rotten fruit at them all the time, okay?

 

Solution for Immigration (UK)

I step out from behind the curtain, spotlight on me, I walk to the lectern. No notes. My eyes start to adjust to the crowd in front of me. 

"Good evening Reform voters. I have been asked to come here to speak to you about alternative solutions to the migrant crisis, and so I shall, but first I have a question for you. How many refugees can this country take?"

"None!" shout members of the audience.

"Pathetic!" I shout back. "The answer is, millions of refugees. Our country should be strong enough that it can take millions of people fleeing war and famine."

"It is strong!" shouts someone else. I begin to laugh cruelly.

"At the very least, a country should be able to house and feed all its inhabitants, and still have double left over. Why aren't we doing that? You're going to tell me we can't afford it? That people work so that others get things for free? Are you stupid?" I yell. The audience begins getting restless, some people start booing. I clutch onto the lectern.

"To think that the only way to change a country through politics is limiting. That we only get a chance every few years to vote the next party in. More people don't vote than do. No, it is time we stood up for our country. We do not need permission, nor to be told what to do. The people shall make this country bountiful."

"Firstly, we need to grow our own food. Every garden and piece of public land shall be farmed, market gardens mixing trees with crops with flowers. Place value in the soil, as that is where all food stems. A street should be able to provide for itself. Neighbours connect solar panels and share energy. Libraries can loan power tools. Every street can have a few chickens and a sheep, perhaps." I say. Some of the audience laughs.

"All of this can be done with what already exists. We are not waiting for a vote or go protesting or replacing those in power. All of this is agreed from person to person, face to face."

"There is the idea of self sufficiency. We had already come up with a better way back when we were cavemen. Shared sufficiency changes intensive work alone to lighter work together. This would allow more time to do what we pleased, with our basic necessities covered through actual work."

"You saying we should go back to farming?"

"Yes! A proper days work. Not sitting bone idle in some office somewhere, all the food you eat being processed, your body getting weaker by the day. A days labour. It doesn't matter if you were born here or you come here, you still put the work in, side by side with the rest of us. Its not just growing food, its building homes, infrastructure, furniture, tools, everything."

"Who's going to make the medicines?" calls someone near the front.

"We are. We already have the knowledge and equipment to make our own drugs. We can grow the sources of medicines from cultivating the right plants." I say. Some people scoff. "Where do you think drugs come from? Most of its plants. Then some powder mixed in."

"I can do all that myself. I built a bunker already. And have a hundred tins of beans." calls the man.

"Similar to how parents who home school their child joining up with other home schooling parents to form shared teaching groups and eventually reinventing the school, being highly individualistic takes more effort than working together."

"At least I got a choice."

"I am not removing that choice, just providing another. Let us think for a moment of the future of this century;

We cannot take for granted things like food, water and electricity. Every nation needs to be able to provide for itself, not this web of global production and transportation. Climate change, warfare, pandemics, whatever, we cannot rely that things will continue as they are. Most of the world already lives like this. We need to return to our roots and be caretakers of this beautiful, unique world. It is so precious that we cannot afford to close our eyes to the impact we are having on it. We can fix it still. If your needs are met and the work you do is meaningful, life is all the more sweet.

How do you do it? One house at a time, one neighbour at a time. You knock on doors and get to know people. You share resources and knowledge. You get them activated so they can continue recruiting more people. Garden fences shall come down and the land be fed. Share cars, share food, share books. Who needs help? What can you do? We do not need to wait for another election or decide on politics or deal with any of that any more. We rebuild the country by ourselves and do it together.

And so to answer the question how to solve immigration, it is that the immigrant works alongside the citizen. That is it. There are those that cannot work, and so the greater labour covers those that can't. What about those who are lazy, feckless and otherwise resistant to work? Actual labour that means something, where the body is strengthened along with your ties to fellow workers, is much different from the way most jobs are. The jobs of the future are builder, forester, gardener, not customer services apprenticeships for adults. Let us build homes from wood, generate our own energy, know that we will be covered should anything go wrong. 

The vilification of any group of people is a smokescreen by those in actual power. They want to get away with lining their own pockets and sorting their friends out than doing anything about the average person living in this country. What we can do is have closer community ties, get to know each other better, get to do something when problems that come up. The country should be strong enough that it can look after itself and the world. We need to get outside. We all just need to get outside and get to know one another.